


A Mutual Trust Exercise

by BaelieFae, Eridell



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Phil, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Belting, Beta Clint, Biting, Bonding, Collaboration, Consensual Kink, CoulsonLives, Dom/sub Play, Face Slapping, Fluff and Smut, Gunplay, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, Interrogation, Knotting, M/M, Mentions of the Bus, Mildly Dubious Consent, Military Uniforms, Rope Bondage, boot licking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaelieFae/pseuds/BaelieFae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eridell/pseuds/Eridell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or that one time the Hulk Room was used to contain a different kind of monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mutual Trust Exercise

**Author's Note:**

> So this started out as a Skype herpaderp and just kinda spiraled because Bae's Clint does absolutely filthy things to my head. Sorry not sorry for all the gratuitous kinky smut. I fucking loved this.

Clint nocked another arrow, drew, and shot. If you had to pause between the two, you were dead. Sometimes you were dead even if you didn't, that was the hazard of this gig. And yeah, he was 14 minutes late to Coulson's office, but the man was probably knee deep in paperwork, anyway. Of course he knew everything, so it's not like he wouldn't know that Clint was late, but the archer rationalised that he probably expected it. Gave the man a chance to catch up on that paperwork of his.

And it left Clint to his beloved range, still petulantly firing three hours after he'd begun. He was feeling it between his shoulder blades, but his arms could go a little while yet. Too bad there weren't enough arrows in the world for the sort of catharsis he was after. At least this way he stayed sharp, and down the line he knew that could only come in handy. Of course, it could also be not enough. That was another hazard of the gig.

He drew another arrow, knuckles barely brushing his cheek before he let fly. The light that signified an entrance to the live range blinked to his left, and he knew who it would be. (Natasha didn't have the desire to sit and watch him shoot paper targets for hours; apparently she had better things to do.)

But he said nothing. Nock, draw, shoot. Nock, draw, shoot. He didn't aim, he just... knew where he needed the arrow to end up, and knew instinctively how to get it there. It made him a great asset but a lousy teacher, because he knew he'd only gotten to this point after years of experience. When he'd exhausted his current quiver -- even the one with the bent fletching -- he stood still, a muscle in his left bicep jumping.

What an outsider might call a nerve of self-preservation kept the newcomer rooted to the spot in the aisle behind the firing booths, hands hung loosely at his sides as moss-colored eyes watched Clint with an air of measured caution.

"Shoot or get out," the archer warned, no heat in his voice. Without waiting for a reply, he started off to collect his arrows. (Shouldn't there be a bot to do that for him? Wasn't Tony supposed to be good for something? Apparently not.) Clint neither hurried nor dallied, and retreated to his booth without another word. Once there, he drew out a pair of needlenose pliers and a knife, looking for all intents and purposes like he was set on repairing the wonky fletching.

As soon as the observer's face registered a bit of emotion it was blank again and he was nudging his bag into the shooting booth two down from Clint's specialized archery line. A Sauer Pro - his standard carry from his Army days and still his favorite pistol - was clutched in his hand when he leveled with the range, waiting for Clint to clear the alley before flicking on the light switch to his right.

"Safety off," he called, clicking the button under his thumb before leveling his sights with the target's head and firing off his first shot. Right between the eyes.

Clint wasn't focused on his faulty arrow. He was watching one Philip Coulson. And because he saw better from a distance, he was watching the proof that said the man was just as deadly as ever, as the holes appeared exactly where they were supposed to in the target across the range. Twelve in the clip, one in the chamber, all coming out in perfectly staccato pops that each found their marks. Phil caught the last shell when it flew up from the retracting slide, a minor show just to see if he could still do it.

Clint waited until the magazine had emptied, giving the arrow a few more lazy turns to look it over from different angles. Yeah, these were only one of many practice sets, but perfect practice made perfect. That had been drilled into him long ago. "Thought paperwork wasn't going to do itself," he observed quietly. He'd been told that a couple hundred times as well, maybe more, and it was Coulson's own words he threw back at him now.

"Already done," the agent remarked back as his thumb found the magazine release, popping it free before laying it on the small shelf at his lap level. Another was out of the bag and loaded by the time JARVIS rounded out his target, switching it for two illuminated boards that flipped up from a black divider.

"Safety off."

Clint watched the man empty another round into the targets. Presumably, he could go at this about as long as Clint could; god knew they weren't exactly hurting for ammunition around here. A perk of working for an ex-arms dealer, he supposed.

The missed meeting wasn't mentioned, and the archer was actually a little antsy at the avoided topic. He knew what game Coulson was playing, but he also knew his handler would expect him to expect the game, thus playing any number of reverse psychology tricks Clint could only fathom. He sighed to himself, sliding the arrow back into his practice quiver and moving to unstring his bow. It gave him something to concentrate on, to look at, when he cleared his throat and spoke over to Phil next:

"So are you not speaking to me, or am I not speaking to you? I've lost track already."

His gun was leveled with a third clip by the time Clint spoke up again, his finger hesitating on the trigger as he waited for another paper target to load in. "That," he began, popping the safety slow enough to make it audibly crack against the still of the range. "Is entirely up to you."

Thirteen shots, all in vital areas, all evenly spread and not a hair of overlap.

"...Right."

So entirely not in the mood for mind games, and hating that he was actually worried what Phil was thinking about him right now, Clint finished packing up his practice kit with a quiet efficiency. The modified gun lock was keyed to his retinal scan and thumbprint -- not foolproof methods, but Clint's ire was apparently enough of a deterrent. No one had messed with his stuff yet. The archer waited for a pause in the gunfire, zipping his jacket over his UnderArmour in the interim. The second Coulson paused, Clint slipped past him.

"I, uh... guess we'll need to reschedule." His voice was flat, a trick he'd picked up from Natasha out of necessity. As ballsy as he was, he didn't want to duck out without a response, and he paused, managing to look antsy even though he'd just worked out a good 1800 calories of energy.

"Suppose so," Phil replied back calmly, dropping the spent clip out of the gun into his palm before turning to finally look Clint in the face. "I'm free right now," he added with a sudden chipper roll of his shoulder, sliding both empty clips in front of him off into his bag before dropping the third in after them. "You are too. You're out of cadet drills. I saved you from second-round women."

Fuck, his handler was a smooth bastard. Not the questionable kind, like the Director, but the kind Clint hated to love. And the man certain had his number.

"You shouldn't have, boss." A corner of his mouth quirked up hopefully. It wasn't that Phil had thought to cut him free of the exercise, it was the demonstration that he didn't think he needed them. Unlike some one-eyed nameless people he could think of. "I don't want to pull you away from therapy, but..." It was a long running joke, something he'd had teased Natasha with back probably before it was safe to tease her. The woman did like her guns. (Hell, Clint liked her guns. His partner had all the best toys, excepting his bow.) "I can meet you in your office in 30?"

He cleared his throat to disguise the lilt to the end of his question. They'd been a team a long time now, far too long for Clint to be questioning whether his company was wanted, but there you had it. It was a damn good reason to put a couple thousand arrows in the range, anyhow.

"You've got two options," Phil began as he scooped up his bag, dropping clip four into it before pulling the slide to chamber a round and push it into his rib holster. When he looked back to Clint his trademark mild-mannered smile was firmly in place, even tone directly juxtaposing against the weight of his response. "You can either go get showered off, grab some lunch, and meet me in my office for a beer or two and some vaguely awkward conversation..."

He began pacing as he talked, taking a few quick steps out from the shooting booth before quickly rounding himself into the open lift he'd come down on earlier.

"Or you can follow me now and I can not only prove to you that you and Natasha were never replaced... but maybe, if you'll allow it, try to make it up to you. It's your choice, Clint."

Clint tried not to give a reaction, but Coulson had hit on so many sore points in that short speech that he knew he couldn't have done a very good job at stoicism. So he played it off like he normally did, his smile quick and cocky.

"Beer would make it up to me just fine." Because really, Clint didn't need much. He had his peculiarities, sure, and the bow was a little esoteric... but outside of that, he was a pretty predictable guy.

But Coulson didn't ask a question without expecting an answer, and the lure of what he was promising was too much for Clint to pass up. That team of his had been the cherry on the damn sundae, especially once he'd had the chance to read through the team files. Ward especially had gotten under his skin, and Phil likely knew it. He knew everything, Clint though tiredly. And yet he was still speaking to him.

"Yeah, alright, I'll bite. Where to?"

Phil punched the button for the lowest level with his free hand, typing in a quick numerical access code into the keypad to the left of the button panel as the doors swung shut. "Not telling you," he replied smoothly, dropping his bag to the floor of the lift as it rolled into motion. "You're just gonna have to trust me."

For a moment Clint grasped for a witty retort; god knew he had a dozen, and that Phil likely expected one. But his handler had trusted him when he really shouldn't have, back when they didn't have years between them to inform the decision, and it almost felt like repaying the favour to keep silent now, so the archer just nodded.

If anything, he thought he was in for another lecture on how this wasn't his fault. The one Natasha had given him had been generously scattered with Russian curses and pet names; Phil's spin on the topic was likely to be devoid of those, at least. And really, though it wouldn't make him believe it any more than he already did -- which wasn't at all -- he did need to hear it, however Phil wanted to say it.

Besides, he had a few questions of his own. And maybe he wasn't entitled to answers, but when had that stopped him from asking? He wanted to know whose brilliant idea The Bus had been. Not why he'd been left out of that loop, because he knew good and well that people were still twitchy about him. Still, knowing who to blame would be nice.

The elevator was rolling up past the twentieth floor by the time the senior agent broke the silence, moving to pull his suit jacket off as he finally pressed on. "You're mad. You don't have to say it. I know you are, and you have every right to be. But you need to understand that I never, for one second, stayed away because I wanted to."

"Not at you." It was past Clint's lips before he could stop it, the imperative to remind his handler at every chance that he didn't blame him foremost in his mind. And he didn't... except maybe a little. He knew there were regulations and security codes above him, that SHIELD had the capacity to make life hell for an agent who disregarded them or worse, went rogue, but Phil could have said something. Anything. Even the new team would have been only a small sting if Clint had had any indication that he'd been alive.

His hands tensed into fists at his side, then relaxed. He'd turned this all over in his mind so much since that day, he didn't know what he thought anymore. The "what if" game was dangerous, and not only because Natasha had a tendency to kick his ass in the gym if she suspected he was playing it.

Phil pressed on after raising a finger, cutting off what he seemed to know was an out-of-control train of thought and damn that man for still being able to read him like a book. "And in return for hearing me out and letting me try to prove it-" He dropped the jacket on top of his bag, running a thumb under the shoulder strap of his holster with a significant look to the other man on the lift.

It wasn't until that moment that Clint noticed he'd replaced his usual SHIELD issue holster, broken-in black leather in the place of sleek Kevlar woven fabric that usually sat in its place. A small Ranger emblem patch was emblazoned on the widest part of the strap that sat on his left shoulder just above the handle of his gun, green and brown broken down from time into a murky canal-colored mix that almost blended into the faded, weathered leather.

"I'll trust you with something else."

The archer's eyes narrowed slightly as he followed the path of Phil's hands, looking quizzically over the gear he wasn't familiar with. His mouth went dry at the sight, and he blinked, not understanding.

"...Sir?"

Phil pressed on as soon as the word left his lips. "You asked me something a long time ago, somewhere around the second year of being your handler, and I never gave you a proper response."

Two years in. That was long before they'd even entertained the idea that it was okay to have a beer with your boss, let alone crawling into his bed when you wake up from nightmares about an old drunk swinging a beer bottle. Clint's expression didn't change. He didn't so much as blink; he was too invested in watching Phil's expression. His blue eyes were soft as they always were, and Clint felt another stab of guilt over everything. Sure, he remembered that day. He hadn't known his handler was capable of being ruffled til that moment. And as much fun as it was when he managed it with someone else, it didn't have the same satisfaction when Phil snapped.

He'd resolved not to push the issue again. It didn't really matter how the man had come to be in a position to pull the archer into SHIELD, it just mattered that he was there.

Phil paused to take a deep breath, letting go of the button to let the doors open again and fold his arms over his chest. "Call this a 'mutual trust' exercise. I'll show you exactly what the Rangers trained me to do, and in return I want you to realize that there is still nothing in this world I wouldn't do for you or Romanoff. You are the only one I'd ever trust to let this out on."

Clint swallowed at the mention of trust. He trusted the man beside him with his life, and though he couldn't fathom how that would ever work in reverse, he nodded. Normally he would have made a joke about Phil needing him to help him hide a body. (It was funny because in their line of work, sometimes the answer was yes.) But today he didn't want to do anything to upset whatever balance that was between them right now. He didn't deserve to have Phil's past shared with him, but he wanted it.

The effort of not saying anything tightened his throat, and he slipped into an easy parade rest, waiting.

Phil jerked his head, a swift, quick motion for Clint to move off the elevator and into the hall before following with a quick sidestep after collecting his belongings. His jacket was tossed onto the shoulder that didn't have his gun under it, fingers wrapping around the grip to tug it from its holster before drawing himself close to the archer's back and pressing the barrel into the middle of his spine.

"Where we're going, there are no safewords. You will trust me to keep you safe, and in return you will do exactly what I tell you."

His voice took on a steely edge the second he began speaking again, gravel trickling through words that couldn't have been any more jarring if they'd been Christmas jingles. Clint almost had whiplash from the shift in tone, and he made a noise that wasn't exactly a whimper at the familiar feeling of a gun pressed to his back.

Oh, and he knew that gun inside out. Had cleaned it dozens of times, when he'd been left too wired from whatever mission to do more than mechanical tasks until his mind caught up with his body's exhaustion and Phil was asleep on his feet. There was a tiny frisson of fear that tripped down his spine at the feel of it, not because he didn't trust Phil, but because he deserved that gun on some level.

"Hulk Room. Not a word until I instruct you to speak."

The shock meant he had a lapsed moment of processing thoughts, and while his feet began moving toward the Hulk room, he cleared his throat to agree verbally. "I --" He realised his mistake quickly, and, still disbelieving, craned his head to look back at his handler. The man had his finger on so many buttons right now that the archer was left a little scrambled, and the guilt at the spike of want that ratcheted through him was quieted in the wake of the game they were playing. He could be good. He'd show him.

The second he saw Clint's head beginning to tilt Phil dropped his bag, letting the loud clunk echo through the hall as he reached his now free hand forward to pinch the archer's ear and force his head back straight. "I didn't tell you to look at me, and I didn't tell you to speak," he snapped, still speaking in the low, husky tone from a moment before.

They were feet from the cell door but Phil kept them rooted to the spot for the moment, letting his nail briefly dig into the back of Clint's ear before relinquishing his grip to bend over and scoop his bag up. "Here's how this is gonna work. Your head doesn't exist outside of what I say. There are no orders, no work to be done, nothing. You exist for what I tell you exists and nothing else."

Clint growled low at the sharp pain, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything. This was Phil, and surely his handler knew what he was asking of him? That zero to sixty to 180 was a lot?

Of course it was. In the past, people often asked a lot of Clint, and it was usually his handler in the field. It was his job to do what was asked, no more, no less, to the best of his abilities, and it was a job he was exceedingly good at... except for his mouth. Normally he would take comfort in the fact that he was nowhere near as bad as Stark, but Coulson meant business.

He jabbed the gun forward again, urging Clint along until his chest was nearly touching the door. Another quick tap of a number code on the keypad next to the door and it slid open, a second jab of the barrel ushering Clint over the threshold. "Middle of the room, on your knees, hands behind your head. I'm going to change in the control room to shut off the Hulk protocol and I will see if you move or speak. You've already got ground to cover from talking out of turn. Don't make it worse on yourself."

Clint's nod was hard, and he dutifully marched forward, taking his place at the center of the room as Phil had ordered. The kneeling was a little harder, and he looked at the floor for a long moment before he managed it. His arms went up, and he took in as much of the room as he could; observation had always been his strongest suit.

Not knowing what this was all about, he had no frame of reference for how much leeway he had. So as Phil stepped out to change (into what, he could only guess,) he whistled to himself, low and bluesy.

\--

Pulling on his Ranger gear was a bit of a cathartic affair. The cargo pants he'd held onto for God only knew what reason still smelled like the field: no matter how many times they were washed the stench of dirt, gun oil, blood and a faint acrid tinge of death and decay clung to the worn fabric, and the smell lit up his spine with something electric when they were back on for the first time in another decade. His boots still carried the echoes of rustling grass and the squish of mud, his ears attuned to the faint sounds that flashed through his mind as he rose to his feet to look out the window of the control room.

Clint was right where he'd told him to go, and Phil took his time in pulling his holster back on over the plain green Army-issue shirt he'd replaced his usual crisp button-up with. His eyes darted in quick zig-zag lines, taking in the stark white walls like he expected some kind of hidden weapon to pop out of the padding. It was nice to see some things didn't change.

This was a dangerous moment. After this, there would be no going back. The ingrained tactics and instinctive need to control he'd kept so carefully within their boundaries were clawing at his throat and just under his skin, and the longer he watched the man in the room before him the more Phil knew he _needed_ this.

When he finally entered the room his bag was back in hand, the door swishing shut the second Phil was over the threshold before letting out a loud, echoing set of thuds as the thick steel bars slid into place. There was no way out unless Phil said so, and JARVIS was running a constant, silent monitor on Clint's vitals just in case it got to that point.

Game on.

\--

"SHIELD trains every field operative on interrogation procedure so I'm sure you know how this is going to go down," Phil drawled as he dropped his bag and bent to pull out a length of thick jute rope that sat just inside the open top. "On your stomach. Keep your hands where they are."

At the sound of bootfalls, Clint's whistling trailed off. The man in front of him was completely new. Never had he seen his handler so far removed from the civility that seemed to embody him, not even in the furthest reaches of whatever hellhole they'd been sent on missions.

It took him a moment to realise it was desire tripping up his spine, the same way it'd done the first time he'd seen Phil out of his SHIELD utilities and in one of his beloved suits. But this was tinged with something darker, a low want that burned steadily through his consciousness until he couldn't ignore it.

His eyes flickered to the rope, a beat passing before he shifted, lowering his hands slowly out of habit and flipping over, his whole frame radiating tension. He knew what was coming, and he knew how good Phil was. He didn't anticipate being able to go anywhere -- not that he wanted to. This room was the center of his world right now, and he barely even knew what he hoped it held. Amends, maybe. Resolution. Closure.

Whatever it held, the rope came first, and Clint offered his hands back to it.

There was something oddly calm through the focus radiating off the man effectively rendered stone still on the floor, and when Phil moved again he carried a reverence for the other's resolution in the silent shifting of his feet that Clint didn't have to look back to notice. For the archer, it was easy to paint the picture of lines of rope against his skin in his mind. He'd been tied up hundreds of times over the years, sometimes for fun but more often for business. It was amazing how many drug overlords or mad scientist lackeys seemingly neglected to take a single lesson in tying up a person competently. It had been ages since he'd felt the rough pressure against his joints like he did now, but he wasn't surprised. He doubted there was anything Philip Coulson wasn't good at.

The rope work itself was all muscle memory, hands flicking open the looped length before setting to work without a word. Phil didn't even really have to look if he didn't want to, leaving his eyes free to carefully monitor Clint's sideways-turned face as he wrapped a good portion around the sharpshooter's wrists in flat, even lines he wouldn't be able to wriggle out of. When his hands were secure the feet came next, one hand grabbing each ankle to loop what was left of the rope around one, and then the other, until the tops of his boots were hovered a foot or so from his bound hands.

"Stay." The word came out sharp, punctuated with a finger to the space between Clint's shoulders before he stepped away to move toward his bag again and fetch another looped section of rope.

The staying still took a surprisingly large amount of concentration. On the job, he often stayed int he same uncomfortable position for hours, sometimes more than a day. Patience was necessary in his line of work, but it came easier on the field. For now, it took every ounce of his concentration.

The touch surprised him, the single command cutting through him with no effort at all. His instinctive "Yes, Sir," was past his lips before he could remember he was also on a speech embargo. He winced, but didn't take it back, blaming it on the boots instead of the depths of his subconscious.

Phil didn't respond to the half-breach of protocol, merely stepping back to hover over Clint's back again with the middle of the rope looped into his left palm. The knowing twitch of the corners of his lips seemed to suggest he understood that the response wasn't Clint trying to purposely mouth off to get a reaction. That was reflex, an ingrained twitch to a direct command and Phil seemed to be perceptive enough to get it.

"We're gonna play a little game of catch-up," Phil began when he was hovered over Clint's back again, pulling the loop into a quick-release knot that he could easily work open in case Clint needed to get out fast. "I'm gonna ask you things, and I expect your complete and total honesty. In return, you will get to do the same with me and I promise the same thing."

The loose ends of the section were tied off on the ends dangling from Clint's boots, the looped section slipping over his head and around his neck before Phil pulled enough tension in the slip to keep the rope rigid with Clint's head suspended just off the floor. "Stay on your stomach. You roll over, I kick you back up."

And then he was up, movements whisper-silent as he stepped around to sit indian-style in front of Clint with his hands flat on the ground at his sides. "You go first. Once you ask your question, not a word."

This was different for Clint. He'd expected a job to keep him from bolting, as was his custom when he needed to think. Everything was easier from a distance, and Phil was apparently intent on not giving him that. This was designed not only to keep him there, but to wring effort and compliance from him. Coupled with the lack of retribution for the spoken words, he began to piece things together; this was doing something for his handler. Exactly what remained to be seen, and he arched his back to level his eyes with Phil as he sat in front of him.

A dozen questions flashed through his mind, words he'd had nightmares about letting himself say. Honestly, the posture was the easy part -- for now. The archer recognised a stress position when he saw one, and it was even more glaringly obvious when he found himself in one. He kept his head high as he flexed his hands. No wiggle room, as he'd expected.

Clint indeed knew how interrogation worked, had been on both ends several times in his life. Didn't make it any easier, especially given the topic, and in the end he couldn't make himself ask what he needed answered. "Favorite colour," he ground out, his gaze never wavering.

"Blue."

Phil's jaw flexed at the purposeful avoidance in tune with his fingers, curling his right hand into a fist as his face twitched with the overwhelming urge to slap the archer's face until it was streaked red. Clint knew that look. It was the same look he fixed unruly cadets with that made them all cower without fail.

"You knew that. Don't insult me by thinking I went through all this for you to beat around the bush." A flare of anger bit through his words as Phil leaned forward, brow darkening with a pronounced glare that deepened the lines of his cheeks. "Did you honestly think I replaced you?"

Clint did know that. It's why navy outnumbered both his black and grey suits combined, a seemingly meaningless detail he'd noticed early on. His mouth tightened at the rebuke, and he bit down a harsh reply.

Phil's question was like a punch to the gut, and Clint's expression went stormy. There was a trained specialist who preferred solo ops (just as he had before Natasha,) who had a childhood that wasn't quite as bad as his own (not that it was a competition here, but it was pretty hard to top circus orphan,) who had been hand picked by his handler. HIS handler.

The rush of possessiveness surprised him. It wasn't typically a thought they entertained in whatever relationship they'd had before... Things happened in the field, and between other people, and new experiences didn't cheapen old ones. It's funny how that sounded legitimate in context to their relationship but not to their work life.

"Yes," Clint hissed, sounding far more hurt than he'd wanted to, his eyes leaving Phil's for the first time since he'd been tied. "What's the J stand for?"

SMACK.

The movement came out of sheer reflex, his left hand moving in a blazing arc from the floor to the archer's cheek. Phil was at Clint's side with a single scoot of his legs, calloused fingers wrapped around the lengths of rope running from his neck to his boots to tug them upward and get his attention, but not with enough pressure to choke him... yet. The pain was delayed under the sheer surprise of the situation, but it lit up Clint's nerve endings before he righted his head, coughing at the way the rope pressed to his windpipe when he twisted like that.

"Wanna try that again, with a little less bullshit?"

He got very little reprieve, as Phil chose that moment to take up what little tension Clint had fought to maintain, the jute pressing again, threatening to cut off his air supply completely. He went stock still, survival mode kicking in. He was so angry, and so tense, and damn how did Natasha do this, his abs were beginning to ache with the effort of holding the arch...

"Did you? Replace me, I mean?" His voice was raspy, his fists tight, short nails still managing to press half moons into his palms. He honestly didn't know what sort of answer he was hoping for, but whatever happened, he trusted it would be the truth.

The pressure was gone the second the question fell from Clint's lips, Phil's hand moving back to the spot where he'd touched before with a lighter pressure from the flat of his palm. "No," he replied back, voice falling by a hair from its harsh snap as he spoke. "Not for one second."

Clint hated to think it, but his mind was so busy with other things right now that he couldn't help it -- but he needed that touch. Or he needed what was behind it: the neutral reassurance that was just so perfectly Phil. It wasn't about babying him; it made him feel cared for like an asset, an importance. And he resolved to earn more of it.

And then he was sitting in front of Clint again, close enough to invade what little space he had but far enough to keep his chin from touching his leg. Clint knew this game all too well from his own training. Phil was pressing in, taking away that little bit of give he'd offered to keep him focused. "Do you hate them?" And Phil didn't need to expound on the fact that 'them' was definitely the team he'd pulled together on the Bus.

"...No," came his grudging reply. He might hate Ward, maybe, but not the others. Especially Melinda, whom he suspected went back with Natasha. Her field record was certainly enough to command respect. She'd never be the equal to his partner, not in a million years, but a good asset was a good asset, and from that standpoint he was glad that the second best had Phil's back, though it would have been better to do it himself.

"What are we doing here?" He flickered his eyes back to indicate the rest of his body, which was beginning to shake with fatigue. The rope rested against his skin, and he renewed the arch of his back every time it cut too close. "It's a little much for a first date, I don't know what kind of lady you think I am..." he drawled, his natural snark rising as a defense mechanism.

The noise that echoed from Phil's chest was somewhere between a grunt and a growl, his frame lifting up after another harsh slap to the same spot his fingers had found before with precision accuracy. For Clint, the slap was welcome at this point. Pain was cathartic, and if it made Phil feel better to dish it out, he could sure as hell take it. He did, however, have a shred of self-preservation, and so he endeavored not to poke the bear too much.

Phil stepped up and around in a single fluid motion, hovering over Clint like he had when he was still doing the ropework to grab the tense section again with a harsh upward tug. This time he was clearly aiming to cut off air, a boot planting itself to the small of Clint's back to add more pressure. "You know why I'm doing this," he snarled back. "Now cut the snark before I really get agitated and just strangle you."

He coughed at the initial bite of rope, and then couldn't even do that. His hands opened and closed in panic, and he craned his head in an attempt to relieve pressure from his windpipe. If he could just roll over for half a second, it wouldn't even matter if Phil put him back right where he'd been, he just needed to catch his breath...

"Sir," he rasped. His instinct was to tap the mat, the familiar signal between sparring partners, but he couldn't even manage that. His only way out was the question clawing at his throat, the one he swore he'd never ask the man who'd been through too much. "D'you think it was my... my fault?" Clint thought it was, but Phil's opinion was a close second as far as importance went. Everyone else could go to hell.

"Your fault?"

Phil seemed to have gotten the response he'd been wanting and he let the rope go with little panache, letting it drop back into place before stepping around to settle in front of him again. "Look at me when I say this." He waited for Clint's eyes to raise and lock into his own again before continuing, moving a hand to rest it on his shoulder when he pressed on. The archer dragged in a ragged breath, but his muscles were failing; the rope set a punishing arch that he couldn't keep up with. "No. I don't. You had no control over what happened, and I've never, for one second, put any kind of blame on you."

He paused to swallow, the hard lines of his face darkening by a hair with the movement. "You missed on purpose, you know. In the bunker. You're a damn good shot. You never miss. And yet every shot you fired was off the mark. Even if you didn't realize it at the time, something in you was fighting." Another brief pause lapsed when Phil took in a breath, nostrils flaring with a deep sigh.

"He never had full control. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I would have been a moron if I ever considered letting you go for even a single second."

When Clint replied, he couldn't hold back the sharp disdain that carried in his tone. "I've been over the battle reports, Sir." Down to the last letter. He knew what damage had been sustained, which trajectories had suggested that he'd personally taken the shot, and whether or not he missed on purpose was irrelevant. He had been the lynchpin, the whole reason that the Helicarrier was as vulnerable as it was. Maybe he didn't stab Phil, or set arrows exactly where they'd been meant to go 100% of the time, but he was sure as hell responsible. And the guilt was miserable.

The muscles of his back spasmed, and Clint rolled instinctively to his side, not wanting to go without air again so soon. Phil knew him inside and out, quite literally, and the man surely already knew everything he could have hoped to get out of Clint. "I'm... I'm not quite sure what you want from me," he admitted, his voice quiet and rough, his eyes lifting to find his handler's gaze.

Or at least, where his handler had been looking at him from moments before. Phil was on his feet in the blink of an eye the second Clint tipped sideways, a flare of annoyance rumbling in his gut as he pulled a foot back to drive the steel-reinforced toe of his left boot square into Clint's side

"I want you to get up," he snarled, fists curled at his sides as he delivered another hard blow. "Stop being a victim. Get up off your ass and stop letting other people's decisions rule your life. Christ, I'm gone for half a year and you devolve into a brooding little shithead again."

Another hard kick and he was reaching forward to tug Clint back onto his stomach, flopping back down in front of him after a third hard slap. "What the _fuck_ happened to you? What happened to that unwavering faith? I still have it in you. Even now I'd gladly put you behind a gun to guard my back. Honestly, would you trust me with the same thing?"

"Hell yes, I would."

The words dissolved into harsh wheezing, an attempt to catch his breath after the kicks. Damn, the bastard had good aim, knew exactly how to split the difference between rib and kidney to make it hurt but not damaging.

"Just don't like thinking about it, is all." It was another harsh truth he shared with his handler, then. "SHIELD shrink says i really can't trust my memory of events, so I don't even know if my guilt is founded in reality." He snorted, obviously unimpressed, and renewed the arch of his back, giving himself another inch of breathing room. He was failing fast. But if Coulson wanted faith, he'd hold until he blacked out.

"Look, don't expect me to be able t'speak much longer," he rasped, "but I'm still here. Still yours, if you want me. Prob'ly goes for Nat too, you know how she is." Loyalty was apparently big with the Russians. He couldn't say he minded. "But don't try to feed me that 'everything's okay' bullshit. Because it's not. Doesn't mean I'm out of commission." Because if he could be useful at all, it was a step towards clearing his ledger. He understood that metaphor now.

That was what Phil had obviously been waiting on.

Clint was close to his breaking point. Even someone as conditioned as him had their threshold, and with as hard as Phil had pushed for honesty from him Clint was wearing thin. His revelation was obviously what his handler had set up this entire exercise for, and for the first time since stepping off the elevator, the senior agent's expression significantly softened. 

The hand that had just slapped him reached forward to grab his chin, nails digging into the unkempt skin of his cheeks to force his head up at an angle that strained his back to the point that Clint knew he would feel for at least a couple of days. "Swear it. And only if you mean it."

The relaxation that crept into Phil's features was reward enough for all of this, and the archer allowed himself a second or so of gratification. But beneath everything, even down to the wire, he was still Clint. "That's pretty fuckin dramatic, don't you think, Sir?" He winced at the tightness of the grip on his jaw and the angle it forced him into. There was no question to the validity of his statement. None. Of all the things he didn't know -- and he was reminded every day that there was a vast lot he didn't know -- this had never been one of them. His handler was the type of man he could only hope to be, and even now he apparently had a few aces up his sleeve.

"You've got my word." He knew that would mean something to Phil, though he wasn't sure it should. But this was a man he'd fought aliens for, jumped off buildings for, infiltrated rigged-to-blow foreign government buildings for... and as far as that went, nothing had changed. The Bus could suck it; he would always be Coulson's eyes.

Phil paused for a moment, the lines in his face relaxing even more as he offered up what could be called the faintest trace of a smile that broke through the stone facade he'd kept up the entire time in the Hulk room. "That's all I needed to hear."

Clint nuzzled into Phil's hands before he could stop himself. The touch had changed just a little, and he was grateful for the momentary reprieve. Part of him almost wished there was something more the Alpha wanted, but this was good. Even with everything, it sure beat the fuck out of training drills.

His hand fell away and he moved to hover over Clint again, tugging a folding knife from the inside of his boot to cut loose the rope holding his head and ankles as his hand returned to Clint's chin to keep him level. There wasn't a single hint of unnecessary tightness in his grip, the touch gentle and balancing to help guide Clint's head down. As his handler moved on to cut the rope away, Clint laid his cheek flush to the cool floor, breathing heavily as his muscles returned to neutral positions, the ache of exertion throbbing in his shoulders and ribs and neck. When his ankles were free the knife moved upward again, shredding quietly through the rope on his wrists to pull it away and let him loose.

"Thank you." The words came out hushed, reverent, punctuated with a soft run of his fingertips over the pressed divots covering the skin of his asset's wrists.

"Welcome," Clint said softly, not moving just yet. He was no spring chicken, and he'd move in a second -- definitely before Phil had time to get out of that uniform, because wow -- but he wasn't an idiot, and he was damn sure going to take the opportunity for rest. "But you never did tell me what the J is for," he half-protested, testing the waters.

"And your life isn't worth me divulging that secret," Phil jabbed back, letting a quiet, brief chuckle fall from him as he shifted to kneel over Clint's thighs. His fingers ghosted over the striped marks on Clint's wrists, a reverent to-and-fro as his nails mapped out the patterns. He was biding his time, offering as much comfort and reassurance as he could while still holding to his stoic, passive interest. Typical Phil. "You mark really well, you know."

"You like it." It wasn't a question, and there was a tentative warmth to Clint's voice. After 18 months of thinking his handler was gone, maybe it was time to say a few things sooner rather than later. "You could always do it again sometime... if you wanted."

Their relationship had never been based on physical affection, it was just a natural progression of what had grown between them. This was really no different, with the truth that was involved. What was best about the whole situation was learning something new about Phil. That didn't happen so often anymore, not like it had at first. Clint was sharp, and he caught a lot of things; it was hard to surprise him.

"Is that something you'd want to do?" His voice was neutral, neither hopeful nor judgmental. In truth, he had a lot of deep-seeded thoughts on authority figures. Most weren't healthy, and the combination of force and uniform today was enough to fill his spank bank for months -- he would definitely be thinking about it when he got back to his apartment.

...Unless of course he could think about the next time. His fingers flexed back as Phil roamed his touch over his wrists, inviting him closer.

The smile widened by a twitch as the pads of Phil's fingers pressed in, dragging firmer lines across those beautiful indentations along the tanned skin under them. "Maybe," he replied back passively, briefly arching his fingers to catch his nails along the deepest grooves and pull them along the reddened skin. "Depends on how willing you are to earn it."

Clint chuckled, low and filthy, though the effect was somewhat affected by the rasp that still tinged his voice. "I can be so good." He drew out his words, just happy to have Phil's touch. Whether or not he could be good was debateable. He'd topped a few times with a few people when the occasion had seemed right, but that had never been an option with Phil. Hell, /this/ had never been an option with Phil. For a moment he thought he should just abandon logic; this was obviously unknown territory.

But the fact was that he wanted to be good for his handler. It went beyond any attempt at making up a fraction of what he blamed himself for. This had nothing to do with duty, nothing to do with payback; plain and simple, he'd seen Coulson get a taste of something he was obviously missing, and selfishly, he wanted to be the one to give it to him.

Dropping the seduction bullshit, he hooked his fingers blindly, catching one of Phil's. "Let me?"

"Clint, I-" Phil stopped to swallow, his fingers moving off Clint's to seize both wrists in a tight grip that pressed his nails into the divots on the sides. "Tell me what you want. Be specific. I'll tell you what you have to do to earn it." His hand reflexively clamped down at the fingers that found his own, his hips offering an experimental forward roll against the bottom curve of Clint's ass with a hesitation that could only come from extreme hesitation.

The sudden grip on his wrists made him pull a sharp breath through his nose. This was never something Clint had expressed, but he'd wondered if Phil had read into it over the years. He wasn't submissive, not really. But he liked the challenge of something like submission, every now and again. Liked the pain most of all.

There was the Phil he knew, the one he could feel through the Ranger gear as he rutted up against him. This was the Phil he'd missed, ashamed as he was to admit it on nights when his bed was too lonely. He missed all the tactics of the man -- god knew there was no better handler -- but he'd missed the unbuttoned side of him just as much.

"The SHIELD shrink would have a field day with what I'd ask for, Sir." And oh god, did he not want to be dissected. He knew it was fucked up, and a product of his childhood, and a hundred other things. He knew, and he didn't need to be reminded; Clint was a smart damn cookie, not that many people bothered to remember that, thank you. And with the data he'd gathered today, he knew Coulson wouldn't be surprised about a few of them, if he could make himself say them.

"I..." Clint exhaled. "That's good, that grip, for one." He looked down at the floor, studying the microfiber whatever that Tony had fitted it with. "Your boots," he said, so quietly the sound was almost lost in front of him. "They're good, too."

Phil let out a hard breath and rolled his hips again in response, this time with enough power to run a full rut that tugged a deep, rumbling growl from his chest. "Here's how this is gonna work," he began after another breath through his nose, letting his eyes slide shut with another deep breath that pushed him into another hard rut.

Clint was already hard and breathless and thank _God_ he was laying on his stomach. The rut of Phil against him was almost too much, and he had to gasp down a few lungfuls of air before he could shake the sense of want that clouded his brain functions. Luckily, it gave him a chance to listen to the slow measure of Phil's voice. (It was another in a long list of favourite things.)

"I'm gonna get up and move into the chair over there. When I tell you to move and not a second before you're gonna follow me. And when you do, I want you to show me exactly what you like about them. Then, maybe, if you make a good show about it-" He leaned down to reach his free hand around, calloused fingers sliding around the rope marks on Clint's throat to purr in his ear. "I'll pull you apart and make you forget your own name."

He was in the middle of spitting out something dry to cover his eagerness, but Phil reached around, gun callouses trailing the column of his trachea, and then he was breathing against his ear, making promises Clint had only dreamt about. For a moment he saw stars, and his tongue loosened.

"I can be so good at that, Sir." He nodded against the hand at his throat. "I, ah, don't suppose I have to say that you don't have to be gentle." He could almost anticipate the correction at the vagueness, and he cleared his throat, his voice gone quiet again but deadly even. "I mean... I'd like you to hurt me. If you want to." He made a movement that might've been a shrug. "For what it's worth, I think you do."

"I would love to hurt you," he purred back without hesitation, shifting his head inward to ghost his lips over the shell of Clint's ear. "I would love nothing more than to strip you down, put you over the chair, pin you down with my boot on your neck and belt you until you're bruised from shoulder to shin."

It was amazing Clint had energy after his day, but he was nothing resembling tired as Phil ground against him, a low groan of impatient want echoing from his throat against the floor. The idea of taking Phil's belt, of wearing the marks for days after, pricked at every nerve ending he had, the hairs on his arms standing straight up. (It may be the only time in his life he could ever remember being glad not to have Natasha's healing capabilities.)

A hard, sudden bite to his ear with a low snarl and Phil was sitting up, planting a boot flat between Clint's shoulder blades when he rose up. "Do. Not. Move." The archer didn't know what it was about those things, but they twisted something inside him that was so far beyond good, it was almost painful.

So he laid where he was, nodding with his cheek against the floor as Phil pulled away. The air was unexpectedly cool in his absence, and he hardened impossibly further. In fact, laying on his stomach was beginning to be moderately uncomfortable, and after a moment considering his options, he deliberately disobeyed to drag himself up on one elbow. It let him watch Phil, but more importantly, it gave the man a reason to lay into him. He thought his handler might need it, and if they were doing this, it wasn't going to be halfassed.

Phil saw the calling of his bluff and he merely let out a quiet sigh when he turned in front of the metal chair, arms folding across his chest as he let himself fall into the seat. "I should get up and squish the air out of your lungs for that," he remarked passively, a hand slipping up to pull his gun from his holster again to rest it barrel out against his thigh. "Or better yet, put you back in the rope and pistol whip you into a shiner. But... no. You'd like that too much. I don't feel like turning you into a pain slut yet."

Yet. Clint snorted. "We'll see about that, Sir." It was an often thought of, never realised fantasy, but the archer thought he might already qualify for that title.

Clint could only watch on as his handler's free hand slid its palm over the obviously tented zipper of his cargo pants, another quiet rumble echoing up through his chest at the minute relief of a little pressure on his restricted length. "Mm... you could already be licking my boots by now, you know. Maybe even finally working yourself with more than the floor. I bet you're itching for it. Now it's all you want... to be stripped and fuck your own hand against a welt-inducing beating." He paused to breathe, locking eyes with the man on the floor with a glowering smile as his fingers shaped out his cock through his pants. "My name's gonna sound so pretty coming out of that throat after I fuck it raw and you scream yourself hoarse."

The snark drained from his brain along with the blood, and it went routing south at the tirade that passed Phil's lips after that. Honestly, Clint would be surprised if he wasn't leaking like a damn teenager against the fly of his pants. His eyes followed every millimetre of Coulson's fingers as they outlined his dick through his pants, and the archer nodded fervently, wanting nothing more than everything his handler had just offered him.

"Yes," he croaked, and even in his lust addled state, he knew he could do better than that. "Is that your way of telling me I can move? Because I'm waiting to, Sir. I'm going to crawl. You've seen it before in the field, and you'll see it again, but this time it's for you." One corner of his mouth quirked up in satisfaction; maybe he _could_ be very, very good. "Gonna take all you'll give me, and I'm gonna smile at you after, shiner or not." His grin widened; they were so very much on the same page, and he wasn't going to be able to hold still much longer.

"...Please?"

Phil sighed before letting a few seconds of silence fall, breaking it with a faint chuckle that shook his shoulders as he nodded to the space of floor between his spread feet. "Get on with it, then," he drawled back, the hand that palmed at his length stopping at the head to roll it under his fingers with a barely suppressed growl. "Come show me how good you can be."

All Clint ever needed was a chance. Right from the beginning, even, and it had been Phil who'd given it to him. This chance was worlds different, but the stakes were just as high.

On his hands and knees, Clint made a show of crawling over, his shoulders pressed slightly lower to the ground so Phil could see all of him. He stopped maybe a foot in front of his handler, and inched the rest of the way. With his head lowered, it was easy to make the boots the focus of his entire vision, and he hesitated only a moment before dipping his nose to nuzzle the tip of one. It smelled of old leather and Phil, and he pressed a tentative kiss to the top of the toe, hardly believing what he was doing. It was one thing to think about this, to know he shouldn't get off on it, and quite another to have it laid in front of him. But the desire to prove he could be good was momentarily stronger than his own doubt, and he flattened his tongue in a wide swath across first one tip, then the other, leaving a spit-shiny trail behind.

His groan was contemplation and arousal in one, and he butted his head against Phil's shins in thanks, not ready to meet his eyes yet as he dipped down to lick again.

Clint heard the unmistakeable jingle of belt buckle, and immediately doubled down on his efforts at Phil's feet. It was easy to just do instead of thinking, and he whimpered in want as he glanced up to see familiar fingers stroking. Instinctively, Clint reached a hand down to his own pants, palming himself through the fabric. All he had to do was give into it, and that's all it would take... Embarassing, but true.

"Told you I could be," he said petulantly, dipping down to swipe his tongue across both boots in one swoop, holding Phil's gaze defiantly even as he shivered almost imperceptibly. Clint let his head drop forward to meet the senior agent's knees, his hand all but unmoving at his own fly, more pressure than anything at this point. "Need you to make good on one of those promises. Any of them, m'not exactly picky right now." His pupils were blown as he licked his lips, focused on the head that bobbed in front of him.

Phil made no motion to move, watching.

"D'you need me to beg?" He hoped that was it, that he'd figured it out, and he placed a hand against each of Phil's ankles, crowding close. "'Cause I can do that, Sir. I can ask so pretty. Beg you to fuck my mouth, to keep a hand around my throat as you push into it."

The noise that left Phil when Clint sat up again was something close to a laugh, his fingers coming to rest toward the top of his length so he could run the pad of his thumb in hard circles over his tip. They were both on the edge of giving over to the things they'd locked away for so long, and the pheromones thickening the air of the padded cell were making it harder to think by the second.

"Mm, don't think you've quite earned this yet," Phil remarked, sliding the thumb on Clint's cheek in a slow line across his lower lip. "But you're getting there. You're doing so good. I'm very proud of you." He raised himself from his chair with a fresh slap and a devious leer, stepping aside to pull the leather belt from his pants with a loud SNAP. Clint almost melted at the praise, glowing harder than a trained assassin probably should. He even took the slap gratefully, offering his face for another while simultaneously hissing at the sting of it. Another never came, and Clint's eyes snapped open at the unmistakeable slide of a belt through loops. 

"You're gonna beg for it," he continued, nodding to the chair. "Chest down, pants off. Ass toward me. I'm gonna belt you until you come. But before you get that, I want you to bend over like a good slut and tell me some of those filthy thoughts you've had about me. What gets you off the hardest when you think of me doing it to you?"

Thank fucking Christ, he hadn't been kidding. And even better, he had a plan. Clint scrambled to the place his handler's eyes indicated, kneeling up for a moment to fumble with his own belt. It came free a few seconds later -- a few seconds more than it should have taken, considering how deft he'd been trained to be with his arrows -- and he bent over wantonly, holding onto the chair legs in front of him.

"The best is when the person you're speaking with has no idea that you've just told them to fuck off in SHIELD speak," he babbled. Competency was hot, and Phil had it in spades. It never failed to tip his mind into the gutter when he watched his handler work a business op. "But probably not what you were looking for." Clint's smile was lightning quick before he carried on.

"It's the way you give orders," he admitted in a whisper. "Having you in my ear over the comms..." He trailed off; it was such a common occurrence. "Sometimes it's your gun." Phil wielded that thing like a damn piece of art, and it never failed to ruin him. Case in point: about an hour ago in the shooting gallery. "Think about my lips wrapped around it, the taste of gun oil while you fuck me." Realising what he'd said, Clint went quiet and still, sure he'd gone too far.

"I noticed the orders bit," Phil admitted with a passive arch of a shoulder, threading the hole-punched end of his belt back through the loop before slipping his hand through it to cinch it down across his palm. The leather of his belt was worn down and soft just like his holster, and while his standard issue Army tourniquet fabric belt would have worked his strategy was clear. There just wasn't any replacing the beautiful stripes a thin, well-placed strip of leather could lay down.

He looped the end of the belt back into his hand before clamping down with his fingers, almost all of the strap held in a relaxed teardrop shape that he let drag across the freshly exposed skin in front of him. Clint had a tan line from his SHIELD gear to the point that it was almost comical: his arms were tanned, dotted with sun spots and baring a majority of the color of his skin, but anything under his clothes was a soft eggshell that just screamed to be marked and claimed. "The gun bit I didn't know about."

It was obvious how much it relaxed Clint to have Phil's voice reassuring him now, as the tension melted out of him when his handler took it all in stride. A final drag of the belt and Phil whipped it back, letting the loop snap flat against his own leg with a CRACK that resounded through the empty cell. The motion was mainly to keep Clint on his toes, the corners of his mouth curling upward at the jump he got back in return. "Tell me more. Details, Clint."

The petting was anticipatory; the leather felt cool and clean, but Clint knew what was coming. He'd been cracked in the field before with a belt or bit of tire or similar, and the sensation was something he was ready for. The sound, however... He jumped despite himself, confused at the lack of pain. It was a white-hot need by now, and if Phil just wanted to hear him babble on, well... they could do that over the game, because he could eat like two pizzas right now.

He craned back to look at Phil, and damn if that didn't make a pretty picture. The uniform was icing on the cake; the real lure was the look on his face, the proverbial cat who'd got the canary. Clint huffed a laugh at his own subconscious -- the bird metaphor was particularly apt.

"What happened to give and take, here? What do you think about?" Clint knew he was pushing it, but that belt was so close he could taste it. "Besides cruel and unusual paperwork assignments, I mean."

Phil seemed to be satisfied with putting himself away and cocking the belt back again to deliver a resounding strike dead across the middle of the curved flesh under him in response. The second he pulled back a target surfaced, pale skin flaring with a stripe of angry red that Clint would have given every arrow in his quiver to feel a tongue run across.

The first hit made him jump, his condensed hiss rattling between clenched teeth. The warmth that chased the sting made his breath whoosh out of him, and the tension at the small of his back dissolved with a tiny sound of relief. It wasn't near hard enough to be punishment, and he knew Phil would answer in his own good time. When he did, Clint wasn't surprised it was in the form of a question; the man was big on the Socratic Method.

"Do you have any idea how incredible you look like this?" Phil asked under his breath, aiming the belt for the skin directly above the first stripe when he cracked the belt down again. "Do you know how long I've thought about this?" Another strike on top of the first stripe to deepen it. "Wanted this?" Back to the second stripe. "Wanted _you_?"

The archer resolved to answer in a moment, after he breathed through the burn of the second stripe. It was so good, so perfectly placed, right above to other to maximise surface are and not --

Clint legitimately whimpered at the third strike, the area already tender from the first, and his knuckles tightened around the legs of the chair in front of him, pressing his shoulders closer to the ground, wantonly pushing his ass higher. Even through the haze of sensation, he could take in Phil's words, and he licked dry lips.

"No, Sir." A beat. He needed to know. "...How long?"

Phil's response was delayed by a beat of a pause, the belt loop coming to rest on his shoulder as he chewed on his words. "Years."

He laid down another strike over the original spot, pausing to bend over and run his fingers over the beautifully reddened flesh. "Not always actively, but almost losing you put a lot of things into perspective for me." He paused to swallow as he straightened back up. "I can't stand the thought of anyone else standing in my shoes." The implications of his reply hung heavy in the air but he didn't press on just yet, letting the edge of the belt dance across the exposed curve of Clint's spine.

The third overlapping strike made Clint curl in on himself a bit, breaking posture as he breathed. It was always about breathing, even now when it seemed almost impossible to drag air into the space between his ribs. Oh, and there were Coulson's fingers. He would know the drag of those callouses anywhere. They were different than the ones he got from his bowstring, and he wanted more than what Phil was letting him have of them.

"Yes," he said quietly, steeling himself to resume his position, feeling the heat his skin was giving off from the belt strikes. "Whatever you're going to ask next, the answer's yes."

Right now, he would move heaven and earth to earn those fingers again. He wanted them inside him, pressing, stretching him open, and he wanted them digging into his hips, leaving marks, and he wanted them pressed between his shoulder blades, keeping him against the floor.

"Sir..." He panted, rolling his hips unconsciously, looking back over his shoulder with a twist of his lips. "I'm pretty sure medical would advise against an erection lasting this long."

"Then do something about it," he remarked back, smile widening by a hair as he stepped closer to the chair to lift his left boot and plant it square over the back of Clint's neck. "I'm not done marking you yet. I'm gonna keep going until you either paint the floor or I see bruises," he added as he raised the belt again, speaking through a veil of gravel before putting as much power behind his swing as he could muster when he swung. The belt found a new target below both the ones he'd already made, two more following in quick succession before he aimed for the center again with the same vicious power in his swings.

Clint shuddered at the direct command and ultimatum, the words going straight to his dick. Yes, this was about more than getting off -- everything was, with Coulson. Maybe they weren't exclusive or typical, but it would always be about warming each others' beds. They'd been through so much now, and they still ended up here. In a way that he never though he could be, Clint was content with what lay between them.

"ShitfuckChrist," he swore at the next strike, his exhale long and pronounced. A shudder ran through him, the pain so sharp that he couldn't move away even if that heavy, unyielding boot hadn't held him down. It was the boot that did it, and he reached down to palm himself, a groan tearing itself from his throat at the reality of it.

The pain was not small as Coulson continued. Clint had been shot more times than he could count; he was no stranger to pain. But that fact was that this was a lot more deliberate than jumping from 10 storeys up, or taking the graze of a knife to the ribs. Deliberate didn't mean easy, and in fact he was sweating profusely as he stroked his length, setting a punishing pace for himself, but easy didn't matter. It was for Phil. For all the days he thought he'd never have the smallest gesture from the man every again, getting everything he wanted seemed like an impossibly good tradeoff.

Clint sucked in a shuddering breath as the belt crossed the original marks again, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. His hips stuttered to meet his hand as much as he dared, and he held his breath for just a few more strokes before he came. His hand didn't slow its rhythm, his own stickiness coating his fingers.

The belt clattered against the floor when Phil dropped it, keeping it within range as he stepped to kneel behind Clint and run the flats of his palms over the red-hot flesh he'd just finished painting with his belt. "God, you're so good..." The words came out as a low rumble, lips tracing over a thick bruise on the other's left cheek before he gently sank his teeth into the center. Man, he was gonna be hurting for days after this.

Clint was flat out shivering when he came back to himself. The collision of pain markers and endorphins in his bloodstream was a war of biology, and when Phil pressed the comparative coolness of his palms to the archer's skin, he didn't know whether to pull away from the pressure or lean into it for more. Hell, he wasn't sure which way was up right now, and not for the first time, he was overly pleased not to have to add pheromones to the mix.

Phil's mouth moved in aimless patterns, pecking and lapping and nipping over every bruise and welt he found while two fingers of his right hand massaged gently into the neglected hole he had to resist with all his might to keep from ripping into without hesitation. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

The heat of Phil's lips may as well have been an open flame, and Clint jumped slightly at the heat of them before the sensation clicked. His growl was low and hoarse, rising in pitch at the bite and then falling again. He went silent when Phil started talking; he didn't want to miss a word. After a moment, he was glad he hadn't; the resultant buoy of pleasure at his handler's words was unbeatable. After everything -- and especially after the last eighteen months -- there was nothing more reparative he could have said.

"All for you," Clint gasped, rolling his hips at the way Phil's fingers found him expertly, unerringly."Please, Phil... Sir." He shuddered, pushing back to meet the touch. "Let me slick you up." His smirk was a ghost of the expression now. "You know I'm good for it."

"Of course I do," he remarked back, free hand reaching up to slap the cheek he'd striped earlier with a playful smack. Phil didn't sound surprised in the slightest, just like all the times he'd heard that familiar knowing tone before. He let his thumb trace over the shadow of the other's cheekbone before he sank his nails into the line of his jaw, pinching down hard as he used his grip to pull Clint sideways off the chair. "On your stomach," he ordered quietly, shifting to a kneel before letting go to shift sideways and cant his head in, his tongue swiping a hard line up the shell of the archer's ear. "Present to me like a proper bottom."

The archer moved happily into the touch, his eyes closing at the bite of blunt-edged nails. There was no resistence as he moved, less fluid than some super limber spies he knew, but still adequately enough. The heat of his handler's tongue was a tangible path as it trailed up his ear, and he swallowed hard against it, already shifting into position.

That in and of itself was a miracle. He'd had hookups in his past that hadn't seemed to care he was a Beta; they still expected him to submit like an Omega, despite the differences in his anatomy and biological urges. Which Phil, he'd never had to worry about that. Even now he knew it was a matter of trust, that the senior agent knew good and well what he was capable of, and that Phil wasn't trying to fit him into an Omega-shaped box.

God knew he would probably be more comfortable with another Beta. Coulson wasn't enormous... until you factored in that Clint didn't lubricate like an Omega would, and didn't have biological markers for receptiveness of pain. None of that mattered; Phil was an Alpha, and Clint wanted him, it was as simple as that. As simple as taking his time to compose himself before shifting onto his stomach, reaching back to part himself for the man. "While we're on the topic, there are a few other things I'm good for..."

Phil's eyes rolled upward as a hand reached to grip into the reddened curve of Clint's backside, nails biting hard into the heated flesh as the other hand reached forward to probe two fingers past Clint's lips. "You're talking too much again," he joked, letting out a low rumble when he felt the pads of his fingers sliding along the smooth surface of his tongue.

Clint murmured an affirmative, nipping down on Phil's knuckles affectionately before taking his fingers to the base. Sliding back up, he dipped his tongue between the digits, slicking the valley there thoroughly. The entirety of his life, he'd been judged on his performance. In his early days, his ability to hit the bullseye had determined if he'd gotten dinner that night, and he'd simply learned not to fail. Everyone thought it was a superpower; it wasn't. It was the worst case of stubbornness the world had ever known. Even now the habit was hard to kick. Rationally, Clint knew Phil didn't judge him by his showboating. They'd fucked when he was too tired to move before, and sometimes when Coulson was in the same boat they were content to just lay in the same bed, doing little more than sharing warmth. But his handler deserved the best, in the bedroom and certainly in his security detail, and the archer knew he could be at least one of those right now.

When Phil withdrew his fingers it was a slow drag, fingertips snagging Clint's lower lip on the way out as he watched on with a heated grin on his lips. "God, you really have no idea what you do to me, do you?" the senior agent rumbled, pulling his hand back to run his slicked digits in a hard circle over the entrance he fully intended to fill as soon as he wouldn't do permanent damage doing it. "Knowing you go out of your way to make me want you..."

He tilted his head to plant a hard, possessive bite on the high arch of Clint's backside before smacking the spot, fingernails gripping in again to pull his cheek while he slowly worked a finger into the impossibly tight entrance he'd missed so much. His breath left him in a sharp whoosh when tight heat engulfed his digit, pushing in one slow, smooth motion to bury it to the palm before pulling it nearly free to snap his hand forward and bottom his finger out again.

Usually, it was near impossible for Clint to let a rhetorical question slide; they were such good opportunities for snark. But Phil's fingers had an agenda, and the archer wouldn't actually have been surprised if the agenda was actually to make him speechless. The gasp of pain as Phil worried the bruises he'd left earlier was unchecked, and Clint groaned low, dropping his forehead against the floor. The only thing distracting him from the flare of warmth and ache from his backside was the way his handler rotated his finger, working it inside him with care.

"For your information, I start most days off with more than that." Actually, most days Natasha accused him of having his head up there too. His throat was so tight that it made the words sound strained, though it wasn't from pain -- it was from the restraint it took to stay in place. As Phil drew back then pushed in again, the archer couldn't help pushing back to meet him.

"You know I want you more, right?" It was uncharacteristically earnest, but not being able to say it for 18 months would do that to a guy. "Almost as much as I want that second finger," he joked hoarsely.

Phil didn't give any warning as he shifted his leg, scooting his foot across the floor as Clint spoke to press the sole of his boot to the same spot on Clint's neck he'd found before. "You're doing good, Clint. I think you've earned a reward." With a quick circle to spread some of the spit on his fingers around he pushed into Clint with a hard thrust, both digits drilling palm deep with a single quick movement. "But if you come across the floor before I say you can I'll drill your face into it. Not until I say so, alright?"

Every whisper of reassurance was a balm that the archer desperately needed but would never admit to. It did more to calm his head than the 4 shrinks SHIELD had bounced him between over the last year, and it only worked because it was effortless to take Phil at his word. He ever made Clint doubt a single syllable, why would he start now?

The promise of a reward made him hold his breath, the warmth of Phil's fingers making him jump without any trace of effort to stop the reaction. He breathed out, hot and sharp, reciting baseball stats in his head. He wasn't exactly what anyone would call young; it was a miracle he was still mostly hard after coming earlier, and he completely blamed it on the mastermind perched above him. The promise of retribution if he disobeyed made him shiver, and he swallowed before replying:

"That's not exactly a punishment, Sir."

It was meant to be snarky, to be quick and snappy and maybe earn him another of those delicious slaps, the ones that made his eyes close no matter how hard he resisted and his skin flush with warmth. But there was no sass in it at all, just stark truth. He would happily take our what Phil dished today, because anything was better than pretending he wasn't thinking about it after 18 months apart.

"Like hell I'm coming again before you're inside me..." Even the thought made his breath come short, and he shook his head. "Like hell."

Phil's mind and hands seemed to be temporarily separated, working over every inch of skin he could reach with his free hand while the other set up a rough, hard tempo meant to get the job done as quickly as possible without being painful. His eyes were hyper-focused, baring down on the ones peering up at him from the floor with a ferocity that made Clint squirm under his grip.

Phil wasn't being gentle, and Clint flat out loved him for it. For more than a year, he'd been alternately treated with kids gloves, or pointedly ignored in an effort not to reconigse the distinct wear and tear he'd picked up since New York. It got old after a while, and after that it was just painful, and he mostly preferred his own company these days. The team was mostly alright, but there were times Clint needed to be away from even them, usually because Coulson came up in conversation and he hated the looks behind their eyes.

"Bad timing for this, I know," he breathed after slotting a third finger carefully next to the others. "But can you handle a knot?"

"What...?" His scalp was tingling, every nerve ending lighting up like a Christmas tree on fire. It wasn't exactly conducive to quick-response scenarios. "Yeah. I mean, I think I can?" He swallowed hard, tensing on purpose to feel himself relax that much more around Phil's fingers.

"You can probably -- mmmph -- uh, probably tell it's been a good while... but that's what lube's for, right?" As much as he trusted his handler's opinion -- and he did, to the letter -- Clint wanted to take it. Not on a biological level, because although he could smell the pheromones pouring from the man, he had no biology of his own to receive them. But that was almost better, because wanting it on a basic mental level meant more to him. It's why he'd always felt perfectly at home with his dynamic, never liked he lacked anything. He liked the clear sight that came with distance, and he liked the clear head that came with a lack of heat markers.

"...You gonna give it to me, Sir?" His lips curved into a sly grin even as he panted.

Phil withdrew his hand and flipped Clint onto his back with little decorum, immediately leaning down to lick at his throat while he worked his own fly open again and tugged himself free. "Mm... I think I will." A hand disappeared into his pocket to procure a tiny bottle of lube as he growled into the archer's neck before he stripped off his Ranger camo and boxers to kick them unceremoniously aside. The hand that had just finished working Clint open squeezed a healthy amount onto his length and work it from base to tip with a few quick strokes, the hiss that rattled through his teeth sending something white-hot up Clint's spine that sent him into another squirming fit as he watched on and let his legs fall open.

It was a testament to their relationship that Clint let Phil arrange him where he wanted. The archer had spent a fair bit of time feeling like someone else's puppet, and usually it was a feeling that rasied his hackles quickly. But with Phil it never felt that way. It was just an expedient means to a shared goal, and that fact that Coulson felt he could just have his way instead of asking was exactly what Clint wanted him to feel.

The promise echoed in his ears, only the faintest echo of trepidation curling in his stomach. This was Coulson, which meant he couldn't possibly be in better hands -- but Betas weren't typically built to take knots. Sure, he'd known a few over the years who'd been trained to take them, but it had never been something he was moved to do.

Until now.

It didn't take more than a quick glance for Phil to line himself up and with a hard bite to the fluttering pulse under his lips he slid home, grinding their hips together as he let out a muffled, powerful growl around the skin between his teeth. The slick slide of lube beneath fingers was a familiar sound, and the archer held his breath as he waited for the blunt slide of Phil's head against him. Luckily, he didn't wave to wait long, and he lost every square inch of breath from his lungs as the senior agent immediately bottomed out.

"Fuck, Phil..." His open palm slapped against the floor as he was caught between waiting to adjust and moving to fuck himself back against his handler's length. "Fucking hell, yes."

Another swift, harsh bite and Phil canted his head to smash their mouths together with a throaty grunt of approval. His clean hand wrapped around Clint's throat, nowhere near hard enough to cut off air but firm enough to assert who was in control as his hips picked up a shallow, hard thrust. His tongue snaked forward when he sucked in a breath to wrestle past the chapped lips under his own, mouths parted far enough for the cold air of the room to chill the inside of his mouth when he took in another breath.

The weight of Phil's hand was enough to remind Clint he wasn't in charge here, and enough to convince him to let the older man set the pace, to scrabble his fingers into the curve of Coulson's biceps, urging him on. His kisses were met enthusiastically, his lips slanting beneath Phil's, gaining an inch for every one he lost.

There wasn't a bit of hesitation in anything Phil did. Each movement was with a direct purpose, constant pressure and unwavering sense of control screaming what both of them were too strung out to find words to say:

_I'm here. I missed you. No one else will ever replace you. I'm never leaving you again and I'm gonna do everything I can to take care of you._

"Right there," Clint murmured, pleading into his handler's mouth. "You can't believe how much I missed you... not just because you do this sometimes." Clint wrapped sure hands behind his knees, holding his legs open and back for Phil, words rushing out between kisses. "You're prob'ly sorry you didn't fuck me hoarse right about now, hmm?" His bemused smile gave way to a shock of pleasure, and he curled his tongue behind Phil's teeth, kissing him fiercely for a long moment.

"Phil... Sir..." The archer was sweating at his hairline, flushed with the effort of holding back his orgasm and at the knowledge of what was coming. "For once in my life I don't mean to sound demanding, but you can press a bit harder." He lifted his neck a millimeter against the agent's grip. "Feels good, knowing you're really actually here.... fuck, yes, that." He actually whined, making no move to stop the sound.

The shift under his hand drew Phil's lips into a grin when he broke apart to suck in a greedy breath. "Not going anywhere again," he muttered back, mouth ghosting over Clint's as his fingers dug down into the soft skin under them. The wedge between his thumb and index finger slotted itself under Clint's chin in the hollow above the lump in his throat, breath hitching when he threw his hips into a higher gear. "I want you to remember this," he pressed on as he sat up a little higher, free hand delivering a punishing slap to Clint's face before he relinqished his grip long enough to let Clint pull in a breath. "Every time you need something to make you feel wanted- ngh, /fuck/ - I want you to remember this."

Clint nodded in agreement, his eyes rolling back in his head as the motion caused him to bump against the press of Phil's hand. It was so perfect, so controlling, so comforting not to be able to argue. His tongue darted out to wet dry lips, adrenaline making him receptive to the slick drag there, and he tried to moan but found he could only make strangled noises. He was revelling in the panic of being indulged then, trying and failing to swallow against Phil's grip, and the slap caught him offguard.

It was very nearly his undoing. The sharp breath he sucked in was instinctive, and the dam broke, his mouth running while he could still breath.

"Sir, please." The drag against his prostate was more than any mortal should have to bear, and he shuddered, effectively bent in half as his handler plowed into him. He'd probably died and gone to heaven, or the pornographic version of heaven. It was a lot better than what he'd been expecting. "Goddamnit Phil, let me come for you. You can't say no anymore. I mean, you can, but I'll probably explode, and you know how you hate cleaning up my messes --" He only stopped talking when he ran out of breath, and the familiar sensation sent shivers down his spine.

His handler's grin widened at the babble, letting Clint go until he ran out of breath and allowing him the space to draw in another after a brief moment of pause. He nuzzled his way inward after burying himself with a hard snap of his hips, voice cracking with a noise somewhere between a grunt and a desperate moan. "Beg for it," he growled, lips finding the shell of the archer's ear to snarl against it as his fingers briefly clutched down harder. The hand on his hip let go and moved between them, wrapping tight around Clint's base as he rutted hard enough to bend him into a sharper angle against the floor.

"Tell me how much you want me to break you-" His teeth sank into Clint's earlobe, pulling it between his lips with a hard suck before letting go to mouth his way back to the other's lips and fix him with a hard, focused glower. "And I'll pull you into so many pieces you won't even remember your own name."

That wasn't permission, and Jesus fucking Christ, Clint definitely deserved to be knighted after this.

"Please." He stretched beneath the senior agent, desperate now and making no show to hide it. "I didn't make it this far to quit now. Obviously I -- fuckingshitPhil, yes, that." His breath stuttered as he felt familiar fingers around his length. "Obviously I'm not gonna walk away now. You want it, you got it." His whined was high and unchecked as he fought against his orgasm, sweating with the effort of holding back.

"Want you to break me. Want to be the only one you take this out on." Words were quickly failing the archer, and the rest of them ran together as he struggled to get them out. "Want you to stay this time, I'll be here long as you want me to be, i swear." He meant that there would be no stupid stunts pulled, because yeah, maybe the occurrence of those had risen since Phil had 'died.'

With no words left to explain, Clint did the first thing he could think of: he stretched his neck, baring the corded muscle there to his handler. It wasn't a biological impulse, and it was never something that had been on the table before, but he knew the gesture wouldn't be missed.

There were several seconds of heavy pause as Phil watched on, tongue briefly darting out to wet lips he hadn't been aware had gone bone dry in the blink of an eye. The hand on Clint's throat maintained its grip and slid sideways to bare more of the spot he offered, the sight pulling the Alpha's head into an instinctive blackout as he leaned in with a snarl to run his tongue over the spot before biting down with a final hard thrust.

The bond was... immediate. It washed over him like a balm, or an incredibly desirable bucket of ice water. Unignorable. Addictive. He was such an idiot, could maybe have had this years ago if he'd just spoken up, and --

Oh. _Oh._ That was definitely Phil's hand moving, icing on the cake at this point, and Clint came with a shout that seemed very far away.

It took Phil several long seconds to come back down to reality, his hand clutching Clint's length to furiously work him over, only slowing down when he caught the smell of hot seed spilled between them. Releasing his jaw to lap at the bite mark he'd just inflicted with a weary grunt and an experimental twitch of his hips, Phil marveled at the impossible pressure around his knot, the fact that Clint had taken it. For him.

"So good," he muttered, still completely out of breath and torn between sating his aching lungs and breathing in as deep through his nose as he could manage. "Did so good. So proud of you. Missed you so much. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Phil's tongue distracted Clint from wherever his mind had been, and he shuddered under the deliberate lick. "Ow." It was mostly a token complaint, but holy shit, it was a good thing he didn't have the energy that moving would require. The praise melted him, and he forgot about the discomfort of Phil's knot momentarily, clearing his throat before peeking his eyes open. The bliss written on his handler's face made a sharp bloom of pride rise in his chest, and he made a soft sound. "Missed you, Sir. Missed you." There was so much more that could be said, but it all boiled down to that anyway, so why not leave it there? Of course, leaving things be was not Clint's forte.

"This is probably a bad time to tell you the Director sacrificed your Cap cards, huh?" He tentatively lifted a hand, not sure where permission ended and began in these naked moments, and traced down the senior agent's neck, his mind wandering. "Fuck, I'll get you two new sets if you promise this isn't a one-time deal."

"Nick Fury is my safeword," Phil grunted back after a few more seconds of strained gasps, both hands falling away to take up a gentle grip over the curve of Clint's backside. "Don't talk about him right now." He sat up high enough to watch Clint's face as he shifted to settle himself against his heels, using his grip to keep the archer level until he was flat against the floor again. He did his best to keep their hips level, moving with every twitch and shift to eliminate as much discomfort as possible.

Normally, Clint would have mock-saluted, but he didn't want to take his hands off Phil long enough to do it. Especially once he shifted. Clint hissed at the change of angle, making the rest of the transition with no more than a soft whimper. The knot was so much; he had a completely new respect for omegas. And yet he knew he'd take it again in a heartbeat.

Once they were settled, Phil couldn't help the breathless chuckle that left him, peering at Clint with a trace of a grin as he ducked his head down to clean the line of come that ran from his collar bone up his throat to his chin. He leaned in for a brief but possessive kiss before planting his forehead against the floor next to Clint's ear, arching to bare as much of his neck as possible in a reflexive gesture to the warm tingle that burned under his skin. "I'll prove that it'll be more than a one-time thing."

The archer hummed at the kiss, breathing in deep, surprised to find he could pick up the faint scent of possessive pheromones on his handler now. He had no biological markers to answer them, and so most of the time the subtlety of those things passed him by -- but the change was almost obvious now. Clint barely had time to taste his own come on Phil's mouth, groaning in disbelief at his luck, before he was faced with the stretch of the senior agent's neck in front of him.

"You want me to...?" Phil pulsed inside him, and he drew in a sharp breath of surprise, curling instinctively to stifle his groan against the man's neck. He nuzzled after a moment, rasping his tongue over his handler's bonding nerves. It was a heavy thing, having this offered, and while his dick was definitely in favour of biting, his mind was cautious. "...You're sure, Sir?"

"I'm sure," Phil replied back, a weary edge tinting his words as he turned his head to offer the other a brief but affectionate nuzzle. "You're prone to destructive self doubt when situations like this taper off, and-" He paused to chuckle. "And you've made a lot of progress away from that today. I don't want it to be for nothing."

Clint wouldn’t help a soft smile. His handler had his number. But then, he always had.

“Yeah, but see, I don’t want this to be a rehab tool, Phil.” He pulsed around him to get his full attention, breathing harshly through his nose at the resulting stretch. “I’m still going to be down for fucking no matter what we do. Still gonna be there to warm your bed when you need me to – provided he who shall not be named hasn’t sent me to outer fucking Mongolia.” The archer dipped his head, nuzzling Phil’s neck, the scent of him new and intoxicating. His fingers played down the man’s spine, massaging tense muscles there as carefully as Phil was taking care of him.

“I don’t want it to be a duty, or a learning experience, or leverage.” He punctuated each thought with a kiss. “What I want is for you to tell me you want it. You forget I’m a Beta and don’t know these things.” The grin he gave Coulson then suggested that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but it was hardly his fault. Adrenaline was still soaring, and after everything he’d just endured, the tiniest amount of teasing turnaround was definitely fair play.

And Phil seemed to realize it immediately. "I didn't mean it like that," he replied when he moved to hover over Clint again, staring him down with a muted smile. "If I didn't want this to mean something I wouldn't have done it at all. In case you haven't noticed, I don't really make a habit out of this." When he paused his smile twitched with something that could arguably be called fondness, the blunt edges of his nails tracing a crescent shape in the hair behind Clint's ear as he sucked in a sudden, shaky breath at the clench.

When he let the breath out it was measured and even, fingers traipsing along the unkempt line of Clint's jaw before splaying across the faded stripes on his cheek to pull him into a slow, lazy kiss. "I want this. I want you. And if I end up lucky enough to make this a more concrete... thing, I want you to trust me to take care of you just as much as I do when we're in the field. I want to- Christ, I _really_ want to- but I won't force myself on you, either."

The slack lines that smoothed out on Phil’s face when bliss rewrote them was the most gorgeous thing Clint had seen in a while. And then the agent’s fingers were moving again, proprietary and unrushed, and Clint tipped his chin to let them roam.

“I was just making it clear, Sir… this isn’t a power play on my part.” He dipped his chin to kiss the pads of Phil’s fingers, curling to nuzzle his neck. “Just wanted to make sure you want it as much as I do.”

His own breath was warm as it reflected off his handler’s skin, and he dragged his tongue over the nerves beneath slowly. “I’m going to do this because I want it – Jesus, I want it – and then you’re going to tell me how pretty I look wearing your bruises until you can walk again, and then I’m taking you to bed.” Because he would never admit it, but Phil needed sleep. And Clint would never admit it, but so did he.

“Deal?” He didn’t wait for an answer, his teeth sinking into the agent’s skin with no hesitance. It was like jumping off a building; his mind was already made up to endure the fall. The reaction was instantaneous: both of Phil's hands clenched against the rush of something white-hot burning through his veins like a sudden flare of wildfire, one digging into the hardened jut of Clint's hipbone and the other sinking into his stubble-dotted cheek with a force he couldn't bring himself to control.

_Well, hot damn._

Clint had never seen an Alpha bond up close. Plenty of Omegas, because a one-way bond made neat ops even neater, but that was bliss and melting. This was passion and power, and the archer made a strangled noise beneath his handler, not fighting his grip as he held on, giving up on cataloging the details. This was too good to miss.

Phil managed to choke out a muffled "Sorry" as he forced the hand biting into Clint's cheek to let go, dropping it to the side of his neck to swipe his thumb in a slow line over the skin behind his ear. His breath came in ragged bursts for several long seconds, his head turning to press his lips along the side of Clint's jaw that he hadn't nearly torn to shreds. "Sorry... didn't mean to claw you."

He did finally let go, and Clint worked his jaw experimentally, flashing a buzzed grin at Phil. It faded into naked pleasure as Phil stroked down his neck. "Bet you say that to all the guys," her murmured quietly, smiling to himself at the weight of the senior agent as the man finally relaxed. "...But you forgot the part about how pretty I am."

"And you forgot that I've never let someone reciprocate a bond before." The response came tumbling out before Phil could stymie it, lips clamping shut the second he realized how heavy the confession really was. Clint felt him tense up under his fingers, briefly letting them come to rest on his handler's shoulders until Phil finally twitched and slumped forward again. With a tentative understanding of permission, Clint stroked down the curves of his handler's biceps, finding that there was nothing on the tip of his tongue for once. He knew Phil didn't make a habit of it, presumably so he would always be work-ready, but never...?

There was nothing to be said to cover that milestone, and so while Clint murmured every now and then at the tiny movements they inevitably made, sharing kisses and touches, they enjoyed the time together in silence. They'd had a lot of silence over the years; it was more than comfortable.

Eventualy, the archer grunted as Coulson slipped free, eyes closed against the unfamiliar sensation. He was going to be damn sore tomorrow -- and he was going to love every minute of it. "Sir..." His breathe left him in a whoosh, and he reached for Phil's hand briefly, the clutch of his fingers saying everything he didn't want to drag up verbally. "I don't suppose there's a crash pad down here for when Banner de-Hulks?" His smile was tired and oversatisfied as he offered it up. "Because not moving sounds like a really good idea."

The familiar slide of his length finally moving free pulled a sharp grunt from Phil, the hand on Clint's hip moving down to guide himself out as his hips shifted back as gingerly as he could manage. The retreat was slow, methodical from caution and a touch of disappointment that it was winding down until he was free and he slumped forward again. He didn't have to say anything to convey what was running through his head: Clint knew the feeling all too well.

"There's a room across the hall," he muttered back, nosing himself into the crook of Clint's neck to suck in a deep breath. His arms snaked themselves under the archer's back, one coming to rest around his waist with the other across his shoulder blades and his fingers buried into the hair on the back of his head. "Move in a second. You doing okay?"

Phil was scenting him, dragging in the way Clint didn't smell completely like himself. And goddamn, if that wasn't the hottest realisation. Tipping his chin up, Clint stretched a bit to let Phil curl closer, enjoying the moment.

"Me? Down here?" The archer's smile was free and wide, his eyes still closed in enjoyment. "Just fuckin dandy, Sir." He nudged his handler clumsily, affectionately moving his head back against the fingers he felt against his scalp. "I can move, 'f that's what you're asking. 'Course if you're planning on staying there, I don't think I want to..."

His fingers slipped down to toy at the hem of Phil's shirt. He knew why he'd left it on, and he knew better than to slide a hand beneath it. In time, maybe. He didn't know if he was quite ready for it, himself. In recognition of that, Clint curled up to kiss the waiting curve of Phil's throat, nodding his head at the door. "Let's go."

**Author's Note:**

> Leave some feedback on my Tumblr! http://eridell.tumblr.com


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